ain't no one here but me
happy fic, huh? bam! achieved.
Eight Things You Should Know
By Candle Beck
Dean called Sam from outside the library and told him to get his punk-ass in gear, and, distracted, Sam accidentally left his hand inside the copier as he pushed the green button. The bar of white light scanned across, taking in the book pages and Sam's fingertips spread out at the edges, blurry black and white. Sam knew copy machines were totally safe and had seen guys flatten their faces on the glass--eyes open--but it still bugged him. It left his hand feeling all tingly and weird, though that might have been mostly in Sam's head.
Dean, this was Dean's fault. Sam was going to get cancer of the hand and die and then Dean would feel bad for always ditching him at the library. Sam worked up half a mood and then kinda let it go when he came out of the stacks and saw the sunlight pouring in a giant block through the glass front doors. It was too nice a day.
There was a vending machine in the little alcove by the bathrooms, and Sam got himself a Payday and a pack of peanut M&Ms for his brother because Dean would be insufferable if Sam had candy and he didn't. He went outside and Dean was idling in front, started bitching at Sam almost immediately, leaning across the seat. Sam chucked the M&Ms through the open window and Dean was pretty quick, caught them out of the air, rant cut off by a pleased surprised noise.
Sam got in the car, slung his bag in the back. Dean ripped a corner of the M&Ms off with his teeth and shook a few directly into his mouth, grinning all shattered candy-shell colors and messy chocolate at Sam. Sam made a face, looking away.
"You're so gross, Dean."
Dean cheerfully bounced a yellow M&M off Sam's forehead. It ricocheted down to the floor, a single bright spot on the dark floor mat and Dean told him promptly, "Pick that up before you step on it."
Sam glared at him, considered refusing but it probably wasn't worth it. He picked up the M&M, went to throw it out the window but Dean said, "Hey!" all aggrieved and snatched it out of Sam's hand, ate it jealously. Sam rolled his eyes so hard he almost strained himself.
"Are you done playing with your food?" Sam asked. "Can we go now?"
Dean made to smack Sam but Sam was too fast, more like a ninja than anything else. He smirked at his brother and Dean muttered, "Yeah yeah yeah," with his own lip curled up, started the car and got them out of there.
*
The first thing you should know: Dean annoys the living hell out of Sam.
*
This was in the pretty green stretch between spring and summer, and they were working a mundane salt-and-burn case in southern Illinois. Just a railroad ghost, out there in the dark with his lantern and his pickaxe and half his face sheared down to sinew and bone, the curve of his skull staved in. Sam and Dean would have been out of there yesterday if the majority of the headstones in the churchyard hadn't been weather-worn to the point of total illegibility. The right bones were under their feet somewhere, hidden as good as pirate treasure.
They were digging up graves all night, looking for the skeleton with a smashed skull. Most, thankfully, were pauper's graves and shallower than usual, the coffins cheap rotted wood that splintered like thin ice. Sam's arms felt rubbery and there was a deep ache pressing in between his shoulder blades, but he was mostly doing okay. He'd achieved a Zen-like state of calm from the rhythm of grave-digging, the solid physical pull all through his body.
Dean was sweaty and dirty and talking like the evil warden from Cool Hand Luke, drawling, "What's all this dirt doin' in mah hole, boy?" and harping on Sam about their failure to communicate. Sam was ignoring him, blissfully exhausted under the quarter moon.
Dean leaned his shovel against the gravestone and swiped his filthy hands on Sam's shirt. He was fishing for a reaction but everything Sam was wearing was already a loss until they had time to do laundry again, so he didn't even bother trying to get away. Dean made a frustrated sound and grabbed for Sam's head and Sam kept digging, tugged slightly off balance. Dean's dirty fingers sank through his hair, scratching Sam's scalp.
Sam sighed. "Do you mind."
Scrubbing his hands through Sam's hair, Dean showed him a brilliant grin, starkly white set in his grimed face. His hands slid free, brushed down Sam's neck and Sam hid his shiver.
"You were just looking a little too clean there, Sammy."
Sam lifted his eyebrows. He flicked his hands at Dean and mud speckled across Dean's shirt. He shut his eyes tight and ducked, shaking his head hard like a dog and hearing bits of soil patter around them. Sam looked up and Dean had a hand up, shielding his face, features scrunched up. Sam grinned, brushing the stale grave dirt from his neck, his hands where Dean's hands had been.
They dug a little deeper, climbing lower into the ground. Dean was singing under his breath, something off the punk tape he'd picked up outside Springfield and been playing on a loop ever since. Sam let him get through it a couple of times but when Dean mumbled through the last chorus and swung back to the top of the song again, he tossed a shovelful on Dean's boots.
"Dude!" Dean protested in his cemetery-quiet angry voice.
"Who sings that song, Dean?" Sam asked innocently enough. Dean perked up; he loved showing off when he knew stuff.
"Black Flag. Henry Rollins."
"Let's keep it that way."
Dean's face fell kinda epically. Sam couldn't believe he'd never heard that one before. He started laughing, memorizing the huge injured gape of Dean's eyes and the downward-broken lines of his eyebrows, his mouth slightly open and soft, half a pout. Sam tried to muffle his laughter in his sleeve, marginally cleaner than his hands, and it came out in chortles and snorts and Dean's eyes skinned down, became slitted and hot.
"Get a fuckin' grip, Sam, it wasn't even that funny," Dean said, hissing on Sam's name like he did when he was miffed.
"Oh," Sam said, "it really kinda was. Your face, dude. I could just bottle and sell you."
Dean's mouth twisted up and Sam's eyes were drawn irresistibly. Dean looking all pissed off and huffy with color rising on his cheeks and his green eyes blazing, Dean filthy and well-used, this was one of Sam's very favorite versions.
"You're askin' for it," Dean said, voice pitched low and it skittered up Sam's spine. He gave Dean his biggest cheese-eating grin, the one that begged for a headlock. His heart was going nine hundred miles an hour.
"Bring it, motherfucker."
Dean's eyes somehow widened further--Sam liked to save his cursing for when it would have the greatest impact--but then he pulled a careless smirk down and shook his head, going back to his digging.
"You'll get yours," he said mildly, now too cool for school. He smoothly hiked shovelfuls out of the ground, almost waist-deep now, not looking at Sam.
Sam's hands twitched on his own shovel, watching the muscles in his brother's back work under his black T-shirt. He waited for Dean's next move, but Dean was done playing, apparently, and Sam bit back his disappointment. It was boring, all this grave digging. Too quiet out here.
He got back to work. He wondered if Dean would remember to get him back after they torched this guy and went back to the motel. They would both be dead on their feet; if they could manage to fit in showers it would be a miracle. Dean would probably forget by tomorrow, Sam thought. Quick to anger but couldn't hold a grudge for the life of him, typical.
Without thinking too much about his motives, Sam pulled a handful of loose dirt out of the grave wall and shoved it down the back of Dean's shirt.
Dean forgot where they were and hollered Sam's name. Sam was grinning like a fool, listening to the echo ring.
*
The second thing you should know: Sam fuckin' loves it.
*
Sam had a rule about letting himself get too drunk in front of Dean. To wit: do not get too drunk in front of Dean.
It was good advice for any number of reasons, but most of them revolved around not leaving himself open to ridicule. Sam was clumsy when he was drunk. He was clingy and mush-mouthed and by turns morose and overly affectionate. He couldn't tell a lie to save his life, and when he tried to get off a good one-liner people just stared at him like he was speaking Farsi. On the very rare occasions that Sam blacked out, he went down like a redwood tree, shaking the earth and demolishing unsecured glassware.
It was generally better for all involved if Sam kept his head while he was around Dean.
But tonight had not been a good night. They were wherever they were, somewhere outside Louisville, and it had been raining in this town for five months straight. Somebody had bidden it, after a year of drought some idiot farmer had fucked up his rain spell, and now the streets were all mud and the thunder on the roof was relentless, maddening.
They'd been here a week and hadn't gotten anywhere. They kept buying umbrellas at gas stations and seeing them murdered, turned inside-out by the wind.
Earlier tonight, they'd been running across the parking lot from the car to the diner and Dean had hit a slick patch and ate it hard on the soaked asphalt. At the time it'd been hilarious, a moment of physical comedy so pure and unexpected that it ripped through the murk like lightning. Sam had half-gasped, half-laughed, too shocked to get a proper gut laugh going, shoving his wet hair back with one hand.
But Dean had actually managed to hurt himself a little bit, scraping the hell out of the side of his hand and possibly spraining his wrist, and he didn't hesitate to enumerate for Sam all the ways in which he was a heartless fucking waste of a family member for laughing right now. When Sam saw the raw red place on Dean's hand, already washed clean of grit by the downpour, he clammed up quick, grabbed Dean's soggy arm and hauled him to his feet. He flicked his head slightly to let his hair fall back thick and clumped in front of his eyes, so he could study Dean worriedly without Dean making a fuss.
Dean was fine. His ego had been damaged more than anything else, but he still whined all through dinner, knowing that Sam would let him get away with it as long as his wrist was swelling.
Sam had not asked if Dean wanted to go to the bar, just steered them there while tuning out Dean's monologue on how he could drive better than Sam one-handed and blindfolded. Sam was tired, sick of the rain and the way it made their quarters seem that much closer, the way it slicked down Dean's hair and traced his features and made him gleam in the lowest light. Not to mention, Sam hated almost nothing in this world as much as wet shoes.
The place was mostly empty (people were slowly retreating into their homes and succumbing to a baffling kind of cabin fever, all imaginary armies and cutlery fights--the recent police reports for the town bordered on surreal), and those who were there sat damp and weary along the bar, frogs on a log. Sam had half a headache from listening to Dean run his mouth all night, but he ignored him instead of telling him to shut up, still feeling kinda bad about laughing when Dean could have broken his wrist or something
He set out drinking, not intending to get wasted but that was where he ended up. Sam blamed it on the curse, the deranging taste in the air, or at least, the endless clatter of the rain above his head. It made his throat dry.
Dean matched him, beer for beer and shot for shot. It was self-medication; he'd taken six Tylenol for his wrist but nothing stronger because they needed to preserve their real painkillers for the next time one of them got shot. There was a small pained line pressed vertically between Dean's eyebrows, and his mouth was stiffer than normal, so Sam knew he was hurting but not too bad because if it had been too bad he wouldn't be whining but instead insisting that he was fine--Dean was kind of a jackass like that.
But Sam couldn't concentrate on any of Dean's bad qualities when he was drunk.
Dean rocked into him, bleary-eyed and looking at Sam fondly. "Total lightweight, Sammy."
Sam smiled, pushing his shoulder back into Dean's. Dean's skin was pale, they both were, living with sheets of water instead of sunlight, and his darkened hair stuck up soft and spiky like early in the morning. Dean's eyes were half-closed. He yawned, favoring his good hand.
"Can't talk," Sam mumbled. "You're fallin' asleep on the bar."
"Aha." Dean clapped Sam on the shoulder, dropped his head onto his hand for a second. Sam got a whiff of his shampoo, the sleek Cuervo smell on him. "I will fall asleep where I damn well please. Little brother."
Sam pushed him up, getting kinda overheated and confused and not sure what Dean had meant, calling him that right now. Dean's face gave no clues, just a dopey drunk look, a wicked smile curving his mouth when he met Sam's gaze. Sam stared at him, kinda helpless. Those fucking eyes of his.
"Sam," Dean said, sounding serious. Sam's heart caught in his throat, the drunk making him fourteen years old and stupidly, fatalistically in love with his brother again, throttled and petrified and sick with desire. He'd gotten over that stuff a long time ago, but it would come back sometimes when he was drunk.
"Sammy."
Sam swallowed. He threw his voice down low with Dean's. "What?"
Dean blinked. "We. I can't drive her home like this. In the rain. An' you can't, either."
"Yeah, yes." Sam nodded fast, his face heating up because he was so dumb about Dean sometimes, this giant gaping hole in his intellect. "That's true."
Dean looked at him oddly. He licked his lips and Sam might have been staring but he could hardly be blamed for that. Sam had this dream about Dean's mouth.
"So. Uh. I'm not walkin' back either."
"No, don't do that." Sam was agreeable. Sam just wanted to watch Dean talk for a couple minutes more, all unguarded and vaguely confused.
"So, I was thinking-"
"Did it hurt?"
Dean didn't even stutter. "-that we oughta sleep in the car for a couple hours, sober up a bit, an' then, you know, whatever."
He trailed off, eyeing Sam and Sam wondered if he had some salt on his face or something. He was sucking idly on a lime wedge, licking at the sticky edges of his fingers, and Dean was staring but Sam didn't think anything of it because Dean never meant anything when he looked at Sam like that. He'd been doing it for years, but it was never for real.
They paid their tab and retired to the Impala, dashing through the rain again. It wasn't as bad as earlier (it waxed and waned, sometimes no more than mist and sometimes like an open spigot) but they were both still shivery and damp when they slid into the car. Dean dug out a clean shirt for Sam to dry his hair with, making sure to call him princess a few times, and then they rock-paper-scissored for the back and Sam won because Sam always won because Dean was Dean.
Sam slithered over the top of the seat and almost broke Dean's nose with his knee. He slammed down, harder than he expected, and the world dipped and wove and spun. Dean's face peered over at him, wavering and inconstant.
"You know what happens if you blow chunks in my car, Sammy."
Sam waved his hand dismissively, smiling at his brother. "Disembowelment."
"Exactly right."
"Yeah." Sam hunched down, let his eyes fall shut with a sigh. "Love you too, Dean."
*
The third thing you should know: Sam is kinda messed up in the head.
*
The rain spell was carved into a tree. Sam and Dean had each acquired new umbrellas and they stood shoulder to shoulder like mourners at a funeral, looking at the etched symbols. As it turned out, the farmer who'd put it there had pulled stakes and fled three months into the deluge, when the townspeople started turning on each other. Sam held out hope that they'd catch up with him someday and deliver the smack he so richly deserved.
"There's a typo," Sam noted. "Or, you know, whatever. That little chip right there, see, I think that's what made the rain permanent."
Dean grunted, not all that interested. "How the fuck are we supposed to burn it, it's completely waterlogged."
Sam gave him a look. "We get it out of the rain, Dean."
Dean grumbled (he'd been looking forward to burning something now, never having been much for delayed gratification), but went to get the axe out of the car. Sam watched him go, fascinated by how Dean receded into the dark blur of the rain, like a memory rubbed out.
Dean thrust the axe at Sam, called him Paul Bunyan and waved his bandaged wrist around in disjointed accusation, until Sam dropped his umbrella and took it just to shut him up. The first swing, the axe almost flew out of his hands, the handle was so slippery. Dean laughed at him and Sam scowled, irritated by the persistent warmth in his stomach when he looked at his brother.
It took Sam awhile to chop the tree down. The wood felt like hard cheese, soaked through. The rhythm of the task got to him, hearing his dad in his head telling him, sweeping a table, sam, you're just sweeping a table, even though that had been for baseball and not lumberjacking. Steady torque of his shoulders and hips, the meaty thwack of the blade into the tree, and then a breath, jerk back and take it again. Sam's feet were dug into the soft mud, braced against roots.
The rain kept falling. The leaves had all already been drowned and the bare branches provided no protection at all. Sam didn't mind, getting hot inside his coat and glad for the cool on his face.
After awhile, he heard Dean whistling. It was a weirdly haunting sound when set against the skeletal trees and apocalyptic rain. Sam took a break, breathing hard and looking back at his brother. Dean was standing under his umbrella, mouth pressed into a whistle that went silent when Sam met his eyes.
"What are you doing, useless?" Sam asked. Dean grinned brightly at him.
"You were chopping to the beat of 'Hell's Bells,'" Dean told him.
"Oh my god, I was not."
"You totally were. It was probably subliminal. Dude! I successfully implanted good music in your brain!"
Sam rolled his eyes, somewhat charmed by Dean all beaming and scrubbed-clean under the umbrella, but not letting it get the better of him. He hiked the axe up and took another cut at the tree, the good vibration strumming up his arms. His hair stung at his eyes, wetted into arched spikes, and he flicked his head, looked back at his brother.
Dean was watching him. No surprise--Dean watched him every waking hour of the day, and probably some of the sleeping hours too. Sam had long since got over how annoying that was. It was one of those things he just had to accept about Dean, like how he was a fry thief and drove too fast and sneezed without covering his mouth, how he watched Sam obsessively, ceaselessly, because he was Dean and that was how Dean worked.
But now, here in the rain, Dean's eyes on him felt different, weighted and meaningful. It might have been the shadow of the umbrella across his face, making him look sinister, and a little thrill ran up Sam's spine. Pictures shuffled through his mind, hard and frantic. Dean on his knees in the mud, face tipped up and so slick to the touch, his wet mouth pleading wordlessly. Dean's cold hand shoving into Sam's pants, cloth chafing damp and Dean's fingers shaping to him. Dean up against the half-murdered tree, shirtless and pale and shivering, reaching for Sam and Sam would press against him so close and tight the wood would splinter and they would topple over when the tree did.
Dean blinked. Sam was brought abruptly back to the moment, shaken and off-balance. Dean looked at him oddly.
"You want me to hum a few bars, or what?"
Sam smirked. He pushed down a slight cringing disappointment, that old crawling shame. There were things he could have of Dean--almost everything--and there was one thing he couldn't. Sam was smart enough to know that he was kinda twisted and smart enough to keep it under wraps. He inclined his head at Dean, told him:
"Knock yourself out."
Dean shot him a surprised smile that hit warm in Sam's gut and spread all through him. Dean started to hum, and Sam took up chopping again, turning his face away to hide his stupid grin when Dean began to sing all off-key and terrible.
*
The fourth thing you should know: Sam has made his peace with the previous three things.
*
They got the big hunk of tree trunk dried out in the abandoned barn, and then Dean doused it in gasoline, torched it with the flames dancing gleefully on his face. Sam stood at the wide doorway, feeling the heat at his back and hearing Dean's happy got-to-burn-something noises, and he watched the rain sizzle and sputter, oh so slowly come to a stop. Smoke bit at Sam's eyes and made his throat rough, but he didn't care because there was a shred of blue sky visible now, and it was growing.
"Well," Dean said, coming over to stand by him. "Winchesters 47,608. Bad guys zero."
Sam glanced over at Dean. He had soot on his face, smeary like fingerprints, and if it wouldn't have been weird, Sam would have pulled his sleeve over his hand and knuckled Dean's face clean. Dean was revising history again, because the bad guys had at least two in their column--witness the pair of orphans occupying this barn--but Sam let it pass because he could certainly understand the impulse.
"We should go to the desert next," Dean said. "New Mexico. Nevada."
Sam coughed, raised his eyebrows. "It'll be like a hundred and ten degrees."
Dean shrugged. "Whatever. It's a dry heat. If I never see rain again it'll be too fuckin' soon."
Sam nodded, one hand resting on the side of the door. The sky was clearing even as the smoke wafted up, bright patches opening like lit windows in a condemned building. Sam took a deep breath, forcing away the tension and unease the rain had visited upon him. He felt eroded, stripped down to his essential parts.
"We're not going to Vegas, though," Sam said.
Dean pouted, but he didn't really mean it, probably hadn't even been thinking of Vegas until Sam brought it up. It was just for form's sake. "Aw, come on, Sammy! Casinooos. Movie staaaaars."
"Dude." Sam wasn't finding him amusing even though Dean was trying really hard. "What part of 'pervasive video surveillance' do you not understand?"
"The part that starts with a P. You know I'm no good with big words, Sam."
Sam rolled his eyes, biting the inside of his lip hard because he wasn't about to crack a smile and give Dean the validation. Give Dean an inch and he'd end up in Nova freakin' Scotia.
A car came flying up the road, the windows rolled down and music blasting out. The driver kept hitting the horn; Sam could see him hanging out the side whooping joyfully.
"Look at that," Sam said absently. "Just because the rain stopped."
"Hell," Dean said. "There's gonna be a ridiculous party tonight. Whole town'll be like that. We could probably get wasted for free."
Sam thought about it. The people would be giddy the way people got when they were released from a curse. They would mob into the small town square where the grass had become a layer of swamp, under colored lights with the high school band out of uniform and playing old swing numbers. Wild incredulous smiles on every face, and Dean would get drunk and Sam would forget about everything else, following his brother through the crowd.
He shook his head slowly. "Nah. We should get back on the road."
Dean nodded. He lifted his hand to shade his eyes and Sam realized the sun had come out. Dean stepped out into the yard, full into the light and his shadow cut out crisply on the dirt looked unfamiliar. Dean squirmed out of his sodden coat and pulled his shirt over his head, left in a plain black undershirt as he stretched his arms up and out.
"Jesus, that feels good," Dean said, craning his face up to the sun. "C'mere, Sam, it's amazing."
Sam's breath caught in his throat, his quiet restraints buckling and starting to give. He hadn't seen his brother in sunlight in better than a week. He'd managed to repress how the sun tinged Dean's hair gold and flushed his face, warmed his skin and somehow tightened his shirt, how it soaked him better than rain could hope to, but it all came back to him now.
Dean looked over his shoulder at Sam, big content grin on his face. Sam showed him a terrified smile, his fingers digging into the wood. Dean looked startled, halfway concerned, and Sam had to cut him off, saying quick, "Hey look a rainbow," even though the sky was empty.
*
The fifth thing you should know: That fourth thing is a total lie.
*
In Nevada there was a ghost town.
Wooden sidewalks and hitching posts and a tavern with a double swinging door, all of it perfectly preserved because there was money to be made in violent history these days. Tourists milled around snapping photos with disposable cameras and eating ice cream that melted insanely fast. The heat was oppressive. The sun had lowered itself to within ten miles of the earth's surface, curdling the ground and withering everything that was alive.
Dean and Sam drank sarsparilla sodas in the old-timey saloon, honky tonk playing sprightly overhead. There were kids everywhere, a few running around wearing bright red capes, some family's way of keeping track in crowds. It was strange, discordant, all this high-voiced enthusiasm in a place that was haunted. Two people had died at this tourist trap in as many months. Strung up, lynched cowboy-style with horse hoof prints pattered under the swinging bodies, officially ruled suicides but Sam and Dean knew better.
"This stuff is weird," Dean said, squinting at the bottle of sarsparilla. "I . . . do not like it." That decided, he clapped it on the bar and sat back.
Sam didn't mind it so much. It was wet and cold and that was pretty much the game at this point. He corralled Dean's bottle over to him, pressing his wrist to the glass.
"Hey." Dean punched him. "Nobody said you could have it."
Sam shot him a look, narrow-eyed. "You abandoned it. You just said you don't like it."
"Still mine, Sammy. Give it."
Hunching over and curling his arm around the bottle, Sam glared at Dean. He was like a toddler sometimes, bawling if someone took away the toy he wasn't even playing with. Awful hypocrite, too; Dean stole Sam's food and drinks all the damn time.
"Quit being obnoxious, get a root beer or something."
"Don't tell me what to do," Dean said, eyes flashing.
"Oh my god." Sam banged his head on the bar once, both hands tight around the sarsparillas. "What is wrong with you? You don't even want it. You're just, like, reflexively being a jerk."
Dean was starting to look good and riled, his mouth doing that sneering thing that Sam loved so well, and he bent close to Sam, dropped his voice down to a growl.
"Maybe if you'd asked, you little bitch, but you didn't, so don't give me attitude, it's too fuckin' hot for your shit."
They were almost nose to nose, folded down over the bar. Close enough for Sam to count Dean's freckles and see the muscle twitching in his jaw, the dots of perspiration at his hairline, the shrinking ring of green around his pupils. Dean smelled sweet. He looked pretty ticked off.
Sam swallowed, tried a fuck-you look of his own but he'd never been in Dean's league in that department. He kinda wanted to back out, throw a smile at Dean and say just messin' around, push Dean's soda back over. It was a dumb thing to get into a fight over and Dean was taking it too seriously. Maybe Sam liked what Dean looked like angry, but there was a limit.
But he couldn't back down. It was Dean. It was Dean being a jerk, as his primal instincts apparently demanded. Sam did not back down in the face of Dean being a jerk.
Sam held Dean's eyes, ignoring the arrhythmic thud of his heart, and tipped his head back, drained Dean's sarsparilla in one pull. He laid the bottle carefully down horizontal, gave it a little push so that it rolled arcing in Dean's direction.
Dean looked like his head was about to explode. He looked like he wanted to put his hands around Sam's throat and squeeze. Sam stared at him, more than a little turned on and freaking out just a tad. He called for the bartender without taking his eyes off his brother.
"Hey, could we get a root beer too please?" Sam said. He gave Dean the smallest smile he could get away with. Dean's lip curled up, a hiss of breath.
"Sam."
Sam shook his head, not wanting to hear it. The bartender slid him the root beer and Sam nudged it towards Dean. Dean was looking a little less homicidal and a little more confused, the tips of his ears red. His eyes flicked from the bottle of soda to Sam's face, suspicious.
Sam sighed, took a sip. "See? Not poisoned."
The second he set the bottle down, Dean snatched it away. "Quit drinking my root beer," he said. He fit both hands around it, weaving his fingers and giving Sam his best death glare. Sam gave back as good as he got, putting a whole mess of heat and irritation into it.
He wanted to do something petty and childish, like pull Dean's hair or stomp on his toes or give him an Indian burn. He wanted to key the car so that Dean might throw a punch at him. Sam had always had trouble distinguishing between positive attention and negative when it was coming from Dean. He had trouble caring, as long as Dean was looking at him, as long as Sam had him in thrall. Sam didn't like being emotionally twelve years old around his brother, but what could he do.
Sam sighed inwardly. Falling in love with Dean was the most annoying thing that had ever happened to him.
They finished their drinks in a delicate truce. Sam eyed Dean's hands out of the corner of his eye, the steady click as he tapped his ring against the glass. His throat felt thick and coarse, his mouth sticky-sweet. There was a low ache in Sam's stomach, a pain that he'd known so long it was almost nostalgic.
Dean got up. "C'mon. Back to work."
He wasn't looking at Sam, turned purposefully towards the door, and Sam reached out, took hold of the back of Dean's collar. Dean shuffled a little, canted backwards as Sam tugged, and he said too loud, "Fuck, Sam, what now?"
A father with a small boy tossed in a fireman's carry over his shoulder shot them a dirty look. Sam flinched--there were other people in the world, he'd forgotten again. He wondered what they looked like, bickering and sneering and hauling each other around.
Sam let him go. He shrugged, blushing a little. Dean was scowling at him again. Sam knew he was going about this all wrong, but there was really no other way.
"Sorry I stole your sarsparilla, Dean," he said truthfully.
Dean looked gobsmacked for a second, and then he blanked his expression, fixing a neat little smirk. Regular cocky Dean look, except for the skittish trace in his eyes, darting across Sam's face. Sam thought he must be weirding Dean out, being all contrary and grabby, and the thought depressed him.
But Dean was shrugging, flicking at Sam's ear. "Whatever, just don't do it again or I'll put a boot in your ass."
Sam made a smile, bobbing his head. There were a lot of things he was going to try not to do again.
*
The sixth thing you should know: Sam is never gonna tell Dean, not ever.
*
The ghost town was expanding. Specifically, they were building a ride, some kind of wagon train experience that came complete with an animatronic Indian attack. There was a yellow line of caution tape and beyond it were clustered heavy machinery and stacks of iron rails. Sam studied the period map on the wall of the gift shop and confirmed the obvious: the construction was taking place on top of an old cemetery.
From there the job was pretty easy. Lots of bloody deaths in a frontier town like this, but not too many people had been lynched. They found their man, who'd been killed, as far as they could tell, for being a Mormon. They waited until past midnight, went and dug him up and Dean got to torch something so he was happy.
They walked back to the car down the main drag. Or, to be more accurate, they ambled. They carried their shovels over their shoulders like rifles and Dean kept bumping into Sam, little jostles and nudges to make sure that Sam was still paying attention to him.
It was completely unnecessary. Sam was hyperaware of Dean, catching every shuffled step and every hiccup. Dean was covered in grave dirt again, a thinner desert variety that clung to his skin like clay-colored powder. He'd washed his hands and face at the handpump by the horse tack shop, but only half-assed, a line of grit traced around his hairline and streaked on his neck. The parts of him that were clean shone pale and bright in the dimness, like silver coins in a cloudy pond.
Sam had it bad for Dean all the time, but after a hunt it was barely tolerable. Adrenaline still skittering on the surface of his skin, his heartbeat going double-time, and Dean was grinning at him, looking so pretty Sam could just kill him.
So he was on edge already, as they got to the car and tossed their gear in the trunk. And when Dean put his hand on the back of Sam's neck and gave him a triumphal squeeze, a bolt of lust shot through Sam and he kinda snapped.
"Dude, please," he said angry, and stepped away. Dean's hand fell away and he looked surprised, the faintest trace of hurt, and Sam said fast, "Quit grabbing me all the time, it's excessive."
The surprise on Dean's face flipped immediately to a sneer. That neat curl to his lip, edge of white teeth, and Sam was trying hard as he could not to stare at Dean's mouth, but goddamn he made it difficult.
"Don't be so sensitive, bitch. Barely touched you."
Dean feinted for Sam's neck and when Sam's hands jerked up defensively, Dean went right for his ribs. Sam yelped, falling back against the car as Dean commenced tickling him.
"See, now this?" Dean said conversationally, his fingers spidering and merciless as Sam choked on laughter and curses. "This I can see as being annoying. If I was doing this all the time, I'd say you have a point."
Sam could hardly breathe. He was laughing in great gasping whoops, his sides aching and Dean wouldn't let up for a second, even though Sam was going to start hyperventilating in a second and then he would pass out and probably hit his head and get a concussion and Dean would see what a jackass he was then. Sam was begging breathlessly, stop you motherfucker i'll kill you, but it wasn't working because he was laughing too hard.
"But of course I don't," Dean continued, scrabbling under Sam's ribs and Sam was almost completely limp on the hood of the car. "Because I'm a good brother to you, even if you never wanna admit it. And I don't fuck with you unless you deserve it, yeah? You feelin' me on this, Sammy?"
Sam felt Dean press warm against him, their knees banging together. Sam would have gasped if there was any air in his lungs. Dean's hip cracked into his; he could feel the hard muscle of Dean's side through both their shirts. A flush ripped through him, and close on its tail panic, pure and visceral. Dean was too close--Dean was just fucking around but Sam was gonna be in real trouble in another minute or two.
"Off," Sam managed in a squeezed voice. "Off'a me." He pushed ineffectually at Dean's shoulders, made the huge mistake of opening his eyes to find Dean looking down at him with a diabolical smile on his face. Sam was kinda frozen in terror.
"You just gotta learn," Dean said, and he sounded weird, reedy. He was leaning all his weight on Sam's side, pinning him to the car. "I'm your big brother and I'll grab you whenever. The fuck. I want."
"Oh holy shit." Sam dropped his head back with a thunk. He couldn't think, dizzy and dry-mouthed and half-hard already in his jeans, his hips canted desperately away from Dean.
"Fuck, Sam," Dean muttered under his breath, hoarse and amazed.
His hands stuttered and came to a stop on Sam's stomach, spread out wide. Sam shuddered; he couldn't help it. It pulsed through his body, up his legs and shivering hot through his chest. His hands rattled, fisted in Dean's shirt, and he gulped for air, so hot he felt like he was melting.
"What," Sam said, his mind reeling. Whole fucking world was reeling. "Dean, what the fuck."
It came out sounding like a beg, a plea, keening out of him. He had his face turned to the side, cheek pressed to the chill metal, and he felt Dean's hand fumbling at his face, pulling his chin.
"Look, hey, look at me, Sammy."
Sam wasn't going to do that. That would kill him. Even if Dean's voice was impossibly low and scraped at Sam's insides, even if his hand had shifted to lock onto Sam's hip, even if his first two fingers had snuck up under Sam's shirt onto the bare skin of his stomach, even so, it didn't mean this was what it seemed.
But then Dean touched Sam's mouth, thumbed at his lip and said in a rush, "C'mon, Sam, don't you wanna look at me? Wanna look at you, man, open your eyes."
Sam did, crazy thundering heart and splintering mind and all. He opened his eyes and Dean kissed him almost immediately. Dean's hand was on the side of his neck, curving around the base of his skull, and he angled Sam just how he wanted him, licking deeply into his mouth.
Sam didn't know how long they were like that, making out on the hood of the car. He was just totally lost to it, the slick press and rhythm and the hallucinatory drift of Dean's hands over his body. Dean smelled like smoke and leather and earth. He felt like the only solid thing Sam had ever held, like everything up to now had been just reflections.
Dean pulled away eventually. He looked down at Sam in astonishment and Sam gazed back up with a dazed smile, punch-drunk and so fucking in love with him it throbbed like a second heartbeat.
Dean licked his lips. He was badly flushed. "Well. Fuck," he said. He levered off Sam, stood up and stuck his hands in his pockets. He gave Sam a long look, assessing. Sam thought of what he must look like, all swollen-mouthed and debauched on the black metal. He grinned at Dean a little bit, slow and sweet.
"Okay," Dean said too loud, clapping his hands together once. His eyes were huge, blazing. "Get the hell up. Backseat."
Sam just kinda lolled. He was having trouble concentrating on what Dean was saying, distracted by his mouth. "What?"
Hesitating, Dean rubbed his hand across his mouth, a trace of doubt on his face. "You want to, right?"
"What?" Sam said again. His ears weren't working, or his brain, something. Dean waved his hands indistinctly, swallowing hard a few times. Every time Sam looked at him, he lost another five IQ points.
"Whatever, Sam, what--whatever you wanna do. If you wanna."
Sam dropped his head back, stared up at the stars. "Holy shit," he repeated, this time more matter-of-factly. He couldn't wrap his head around all of it, but one part stuck out: Dean wanted him to get in the backseat. Dean wanted to get in the backseat with him.
"Sam?"
"Yeah." Sam pushed up. A jolt of energy spurred through him, made him shake. Dean was staring at him, spots of color on his face, breathing shallowly through his mouth. Sam had never seen anything better than that, and he grabbed Dean's belt, pulled him in to stand between his legs. Sam smiled big at him, just over the fucking moon all of a sudden. "This is all definitely something I wanna do."
Dean grinned back. His hands curled into Sam's hair and it was like they'd never been anywhere else.
*
The seventh thing you should know: When Sam is acting dumb, Dean will always, always call him on it.
*
A week or so later they finally made the ocean. End of the line, their dad always used to say, whichever side of the country they were on. It was bigger than Sam remembered, a different color blue, and it didn't make him feel antsy the way it had when he was in college, when all the Pacific was was a direction in which he couldn't run. Calmer now, and better suited to himself, Sam walked with his brother down to the beach to watch the sunset over the water, and it was just nice. Stupidly beautiful and all that.
They hung around for awhile without bothering to look for a job, picking up some extra cash in the highway dives and living in a rental house that was still running advertisements in all the local rags. It was dilapidated, smelled like a meth lab had exploded, and felt like home.
The bed was huge, one of the few pieces of furniture that came with the place, ornate iron headboard starting to grow orange rust in its junctions and joints. Sam came in one afternoon looking for a book to take down to the beach and noticed immediately that the bed was made, which was not a habit either he or Dean had ever observed. They usually had maid services for that kinda stuff, or they would, if they let maids in, which they didn't, and so, pretty much: unmade beds.
Sam went to investigate, Sam being a basically curious person. The reason became really quickly apparent, and he hollered for his brother.
Dean wandered in, messing around with a blue yo-yo he'd picked up god knows where. He was chewing gum, looking about fourteen years old in the halfway light between the hallway and the bedroom. He grinned at Sam, which was par for the course at this point.
"So," Sam said. He crossed his arms over his chest. "I notice that you short-sheeted the bed."
Dean's eyes went enormous and aggrieved, jaw hanging slack. It was a good show. "What? No I didn't."
"Dude, are you brain damaged or something? We're the only two people here. How are you even trying to get away with this?"
Snapping the yo-yo down hard, Dean gave Sam every betrayed and wounded look in his arsenal, huffing. "Just keep making stuff up, Sam, 's what you're good at."
"Not to mention," Sam said, shooting his brother a darker look. "That wasn't just my bed you short-sheeted, was it?"
Dean rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, smirking at nothing. Sam watched the flush rising on Dean's neck and was kinda struck dumb for a second, thinking about how odd it was that Dean was still his brother in every way, this one thing that had never changed. He crossed to Dean and cuffed his head, scrubbed his hand through his spiky hair.
"You're ridiculous," Sam said, his voice strangely soft. "Go fix the bed."
Dean smiled at him. He turned his head and spat his gum out into the hallway. "Come help."
*
The last thing you should know: It's not real love if it doesn't make you a little crazy.
THE END
all this happiness is weird and disconcerting! how 'bout some angst to soothe the untroubled soul.